She would take it back into the keeping of her
heart, and if a day should ever come when he would be free to
return and demand it of her, he would find it there, unwithered,
with all the unbreathed perfume hoarded in its folded leaves. If
that day came not, she would at the last give it back to God,
saying, "Father, here is Thy most precious gift, bestow it as Thou
wilt."
As her life had never before been agitated by any strong emotion,
so it was not outwardly agitated now. The placid waters of
her soul did not heave and toss before those winds of passion and
sorrow: they lay in dull, leaden calm, under a cold and sunless
sky. What struggles with herself she underwent no one ever knew.
After Richard Hilton's departure, she never mentioned his name, or
referred, in any way, to the summer's companionship with him. She
performed her household duties, if not cheerfully, at least as
punctually and carefully as before; and her father congratulated
himself that the unfortunate attachment had struck no deeper root.
Abigail's finer sight, however, was not deceived by this external
resignation.
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